


In my field of paper flowers

by AllyinthekeyofX



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alludes to suicide - possible triggers, F/M, Healing, Post Home Again, Pre My Struggle II, Season/Series 10, William - Freeform, angsty, character death but not Mulder or Scully or Skinner....or Dagoo who isn't called Dagoo!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8358502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllyinthekeyofX/pseuds/AllyinthekeyofX
Summary: Mulder and Scully discover that John Doggett had a secret of his own.  A secret that will change everything.





	1. Chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few months ago and it was on another archive. I am slowly posting everything to here because variety is the spice of life! Oh and I changed Dagoo's name - only because I can't see how they could have known what he was called even though Guy told Mulder his missing dog's name he still wouldn't have been sure it was the same dog. So I called him what I wanted. Just because I could ;)

ONE

 

Today has been a good day. I hesitate to use a term as trite as *like old times* because I generally try not to dwell too much on the past. It can be difficult to reconcile just how far we fell. How two people who had once meant everything to each other managed to disintegrate so completely;a time of terrible consequences for the both of us. 

For guilt and recriminations and accusations, for blame and words spoken - not with love and hope and understanding - but rather designed to emotionally maim in the worst way and even worse somehow, when those angry words dried up, we found that, after everything we’d been through together - everything we’d shared, lost, fought for, sacrificed – that we were left with nothing at all. 

The stark understanding that finally, we were forced to acknowledge that as much as we wanted to be together, that very togetherness was tearing us apart. Piece by painful piece we were disintegrating.

 

It had been Scully who had recognised it first. Always the pragmatist that partner of mine she placed her hands either side of my face and forced me to look at her. Really look at her for the first time in months. And I can say now that I didn’t recognise the woman who looked back at me.

Somewhere, sometime, in between fighting and falling, I had lost her. I refused to acknowledge her words that day. Instead I pulled her against me, holding her tight lest she might fly away, whispering her name, a thousand promises on my lips that it would be different; that we would be different, that we needed each other. Melded in to one by all we had shared. And I thought I had won. I had kissed the tears from that beautiful alabaster skin and had done the only thing left to do – I took her to our bed.

Our union that night was exquisite. As we reached an intensity that blinded me to the truth of what it meant for us. When I rolled over the next morning, reaching for her, I think some part of me knew that she had already gone. 

I found her ring on the kitchen worktop. A ring I gave her so many years ago when we were fugitives, running scared, terrified that every night as we held each other close, trying desperately to keep the demons at bay, that we might not wake to see the new dawn . 

We couldn’t have known that, in fact, we were already safe; playing right in to their hands as we disappeared in to the ether of our own desperate fear - a fear that had been skilfully manipulated from the very first. No one ever came after us because no one cared. We were just gone. That was enough for them.

The ring was to signify a new life for both of us. I should have known that our old life would never quite release us, allow us to move on.

Nightmares plagued us both. Scully screaming for the son she still yearned to hold in her arms, while I was transported nightly back to the time of my abduction. Our physical scars were the easy part. The emotional ones were far more insidious. I think if we had managed to hold on to our son, that we might have managed to survive. But without him, everything just started to unravel. And as we both tried to find ourselves again, we just wound up moving farther and farther away.

A yellow post-it note beneath the ring.

‘ I can’t believe any more’

And my heart had constricted painfully. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak as the weight of those words settled upon my soul. The final knelling of a bell that we hadn’t noticed until it was too late. I wish I could say that I called her, or drove to find her, to beg her to come back. Or maybe to drag her back I don’t know. Do anything to try to make it right again. But – and it shames me still - I did none of those things. Instead I calmly walked over to the porch door and smashed my fist through the glass panel. It was the only thing I could think of to dull the pain. I bear the scars across my knuckles to this day.

We didn’t speak at all for over a year. I’m always slightly surprised that I managed to make it through and out the other side. I think she was too.

But like I say, today has been a good day. 

A day full of laughter and of sunshine, of warmth and easy familiarity; a familiarity borne of a new awakening for the both of us because time has passed, wounds have healed and we are almost ready to believe again.

It’s been a gradual process, both of us tip-toeing around each other terrified that what we are feeling is merely an illusion – an echo of our past. But slowly, as each week passes, we are finding each other again. Stepping in to the light where once there had been only darkness.

I hadn’t been expecting her to arrive on my doorstep this morning. On this glorious summer Saturday with the sunlight bouncing off her hair and reflecting in those sparkling blue eyes that had plagued my every conscious thought in the years since she had left, she had smiled uncertainly up at me. 

‘It’s not a bad time is it?....’

*Bad time? Are you crazy Scully?*

‘Ummm no, not a bad time. What’s up?’

She glanced down and for the first time I noticed the strip of red leather looped around her hand.

‘He wanted to come chase rabbits Mulder. He’s sick of DC’

I had smiled back at her and I had a sneaking suspicion that my expression at that moment mirrored exactly that of the goofy, tongue lolling terrier that sat obediently at her feet.

I’d been more than a little surprised when she had announced that she was keeping the dog. Especially since she hadn’t exactly had much luck with dogs in the past and our work on the X-Files could almost guarantee that we would spend at least a portion of each week out in the field. But Scully was determined. Her neighbour had pooches of her own and had told Scully in the past that she should get a companion. If she was out of town.....well one more to feed and walk wouldn’t make a difference.  
And so Apollo came home with her.  
Apollo  
I had laughed when she told me the name she had chosen. Knowing it was a nod back to a different moment in time; a moment of pure, unadulterated joy that had briefly chased the shadows from her eyes and the frown from her brow. For a scant few moments that night, when her cancer was tightening its vice on her, weakening both her body and her resolve, she had been happy. I had made her happy. It’s a memory I treasure. And I hadn’t realised until then that she treasures it too.  
And so, we spent this weekend day together. Apollo chased his rabbits and Scully and I chased each other.  
In a manner of speaking of course. 

We chased each other with our words, with playful touches and feather light kisses. The years had rolled back and we began to find a way to breathe together again. If I believed in magic then to me, this would be the greatest magic of all.

Even when the heat outside thickened as thunderclouds began to move in from the west and the first fat drops of rain began to fall, my wonderment that she was here with me didn’t wane.

 

We sought refuge inside the house we once shared. I had changed little. I had no flair for decorating. And truly, didn’t know where to start. Turning that house in to a home had always been Scully’s department. I wish I had noticed more at the time. 

I managed to dig out a bottle of wine from a dusty cupboard where it had lain ignored and unwanted in the years since I had stopped drinking. And while I searched with mounting futility for a corkscrew, Scully rummaged around the meagre contents of my fridge and managed to put together a passable meal for us both.

I try not to watch her too closely as she eats. Recently, Scully’s relationship with food has given me cause for concern. She has lost a lot of weight over the last few weeks. She has never eaten well but since her Mom died she has found all and every excuse not to eat properly. I know she is hurting still. And when she is hurting, she stops eating. But tonight, maybe because she is full of fresh air and sunshine, she attacks the pasta with gratifying enthusiasm. 

She suddenly realises I am watching her and her fork stops in mid air, halfway to her mouth. Scully hates to be watched when she is on one of her non-eating jags.

‘What?’

I think quickly, reaching across and gently wipe my thumb against the tip of her nose where, only a minute before, she had brought her napkin up to wipe a tiny smattering of sauce that escaped from the end of a strand of spaghetti.’

‘You missed a bit’

She smiles then. That smile she does that is reserved just for me and one which causes my stomach to flip lazily over on itself every time I see it. A smile I haven’t seen for a very long time. I have missed that smile.

‘Thanks Mulder, for today.’

 

She reaches over the table, taking my hand in hers and entwining her fingers tightly. As if against my will, my fingers mirror hers. Despite the obvious size difference our hands have always fit together perfectly.

‘You’re welcome’

My voice sounds hoarse and unfamiliar to me. Barely above a whisper in response to those piercing eyes which have locked on to mine, even as her thumb begins to trace slow circles on the back of my hand. And even though I have waited so long for this, the intensity of her gaze scares me a little.

I have a suspicion that I know where we are heading. And as much as I want to do a caveman on her and drag her back to my bed, our bed, I know that it’s too soon; that this isn’t the right time.

‘Scully......’

But I never get to say what I wanted at that moment. The words die on my lips as a sudden light illuminates the wall behind her.

A car? 

No one ever came here and even though we were safe - had been safe for years - the hairs on the back of my neck prickle with unease. From the sudden darkening of Scully’s eyes, I know she feels it too. It’s all too easy even now to forget that we are ok; that the darkness is no longer following us. Old habits die hard.

The sharp rap on the door coincides exactly with Apollo jumping up from his curled position on the rug and letting out a series of high pitched barks that make Scully almost jump out of her skin.

Our quiet moment is lost and I sigh as I rise to my feet, gently touching Scully’s neck as I pause briefly behind her in unspoken reassurance that everything is different now. 

*It’s ok*

But when I reach the door, I realise that my reassurance may have been misplaced. Because I can’t think of a single good reason for the familiar figure I see outside to be standing there. That a Saturday night visit from my long time friend and superior agent can’t be for anything good. 

I have a sudden urge to tell him to go away. That now isn’t a good time. I don’t of course. Instead I open the door.

Skinner’s face is sombre.

‘Mulder I apologise for disturbing you at this late hour. But I received some news today that I felt you would want to hear firsthand.....’

I hold up my hand.

‘Scully’s here.’ 

I say it almost as a warning to him, wanting to protect her as always. From what, I’m not yet quite sure.

He nods. He knows our history. God knows, he was there throughout most of it. He saved us in many ways, putting himself in grave danger to ensure our safety. I owe this man such a debt of gratitude that if I lived to be a thousand I could never pay him back.

I feel rather than see Scully, who has come to stand behind me. 

‘Sir?’

Skinner sighs then. The sound piercing the silence like a knife and I suddenly realise that I am holding my breath. I reach behind me, searching for Scully and I am rewarded when she brushes her fingertips against mine. But seconds later, as she hears the words that Skinner has travelled here to deliver, those same fingertips dig in to my palm, her nails cutting in to my flesh painfully. 

Her sharp intake of breath.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to have to be the one to tell you both....but John Doggett was killed today.’

And then Scully gasps behind me

‘Oh God no.’

And even as I turn away from Skinner, reaching to cradle Scully against my chest as she begins to silently cry, I realise that I am crying too.

Continued in chapter 2


	2. Chapter 2

I glance across at Scully. We all made it in to the living room. Like sleepwalkers, the three of us drifted back together, unconsciously forming the same triangle that we had formed so many times over the years. Skinner perched on the comfortable, overstuffed chair that Scully had taken a liking to at a local flea market, while she and I sat like bookends at either end of the sofa. Our boss looked incongruous somehow against the delicate floral print. A big bear of a man whose appearance belied his advancing age. He hadn’t changed much over the years, but I guessed he must be approaching his middle sixties and heading swiftly for retirement. 

It’s sometimes hard to believe that so much time had passed.

Apollo, after deciding that Skinner was friend not foe, had settled in the space that separated me from Scully and snored softly, legs twitching occasionally as he chased rabbits in his dreams. I was glad he was there. He gave Scully something to focus on, and her hand rests gently on his head, caressing his ears with her fingertips.

Even now, after everything we’d all been through together, I know Scully would resist my attempts to comfort her while Skinner is here. Her armour is back in place, as strong and impenetrable as it has always been. I can count on the fingers of one hand the amount of times she has allowed a chink to form when in the company of others.

So, after the initial shock had a chance to settle slightly within me, I had done the only thing I could think to do at the time. I had made tea. I wished I’d had something stronger because for a few sickening moments, I had been convinced that Scully was going to collapse. The blood had quite literally drained from her face at the news Skinner had brought to us.

But I had stopped drinking anything resembling hard liquor years before. Knowing that if I carried on abusing my body and my mind, that eventually there would be nothing left. 

The tea though, has remained largely untouched by all of us.

I had been quite unable to suppress the sudden rush of paranoia that had assaulted me upon hearing that John had been killed. Over fifteen years had passed. He had moved on, returned to New York and had largely blended back in. His brief association with me had left him remarkably unscathed and despite the allegiances he had formed – to Scully in particular – he disappeared from both our lives as though he’d never been there. He’d made no attempt to contact us upon our return and although his name still graced a handful of files in our office – a recorded reminder that he’d once been one of us - we hadn’t contacted him either.

And now we never would.

My paranoia, as it turned out though, was misplaced although the circumstances of his death were no less unfathomable.

A Saturday morning stroll to his local Starbucks had ended in tragedy. According to witnesses, John had been waiting in line when an argument had broken out between a customer and one of the counter staff. He had stepped in to try to calm the situation down before it got too heated - as a concerned member of the public not as an Agent of the FBI. It was Saturday morning. He’d just gone to get breakfast.

I can hear that voice in my head as though it were yesterday, the calm, measured, respectful tones that John would use when trying to diffuse someone’s rage. 

God knows, he’d used that tone often enough on me.

But this time, all that respect got him was a 22 calibre bullet in the kidneys. He had bled out right there on the floor of the coffee shop, while the bastard who shot him waved the gun at the frightened patrons within. Creating a brief hostage situation that prevented local law enforcement from entering the building.

It had all been over in less than twenty minutes.

Which was twenty minutes too long for John.

Because even as police stormed the building and disarmed the shooter, who was by this time, crying like a baby, Special Agent John Doggett was dead.

A man who had faced down unimaginable horrors and lived to walk away, had been cut down over a cup of fucking coffee.

If it weren’t so tragic it would almost be funny.

“Will you go to the funeral?”

Scully’s voice is so quiet I have to strain my ears to hear the question she asks of Skinner.

I already know that she will want to attend. To pay her respects to a man, who I eventually learned to accept, had stepped in to support her when I no longer could. 

She doesn’t speak so often of those dark days after I had been taken. I don’t like to talk about it either. In truth, I’m afraid to talk about it, lest the darkness returns to claim me once again. She doesn’t need that. Neither of us needs that. It’s become a bit like a broken ankle – encase it in plaster and it doesn’t hurt anymore. But just because we mask the pain, it doesn’t mean that the bones aren’t broken. 

I try not to think about any of it if I can help it because I don’t really think those bones will ever completely mend. The sacrifices were just too great for both of us. And I still burn with shame when I remember the look on her face when she told me I couldn’t stay; that for a second time she would be left to face things alone. 

Ditching her again, even as she told me that there could be no other way to keep me safe; but I should have argued, refused to accept her fears for me as she stood there cradling my baby son in her arms. 

But I hadn’t because a part of me still burned with a desire to uncover the truth. 

That to find answers was the only way to make it all stop. 

I had walked out of her apartment without looking back. Because I knew if I had allowed myself to look at her just that one last time, I would have turned around and walked straight back in. 

And so I left. 

Again.

But we had been wrong. So fucking wrong that now, when I allow myself to think of it, I can’t believe how blind we’d been back then.

And even now, sometimes, at night, my dreams are haunted by the sound of Scully’s anguish, mingling with our baby’s wailing cries and I bolt awake, hands pressed against my head, trying to block out the pain and the shame and the guilt that still burns like acid inside me. I will never be able to cleanse myself of it. 

But John had never questioned our motives. He had simply stepped in to take over my role. As best he could he tried. Putting everything on hold to follow us for a cause he had never really understood - to help find the truth. To keep Scully safe.

I will always be grateful to him.......

Skinner regards Scully, his concern for her mirroring my own.

“As soon as I get a date I’ll let you know. I guess it’ll be within the next couple of weeks...”

He rises slowly to his feet, not wishing to intrude on her grief any longer than he has to. But he surprises me by gently placing a hand atop her head, pausing in front of her.

“I’m sorry Dana.”

From my vantage point I see her hand tighten convulsively around one of the tufts of hair that stick up at crazy angles from Apollo’s ears and I know she is fighting with everything she’s got, to not break down. I know this woman so well it scares me and I send up a silent plea to Skinner to just go.

Maybe he hears me, I don’t know, but with one last nod in my direction, he heads for the door and in seconds, is gone.

I stretch my arm across the space that separates us, but she is on her feet before I can make contact, her movement just violent enough to awaken Apollo who jumps down to the floor, all sleepy tail wagging and blinking eyes.

“Scully?....”

“I’m fine Mulder. It’s late. I should go....”

She won’t meet my eyes. It’s a standard Scully evasion technique. I think I first recognised it for what it was when she stood trembling before me in the aftermath of the whole Donnie Pfaster mess. 

That terrifying night when she realised for the first time that some monsters were real. 

It was also the first night I realised I loved her. 

Was in love with her. 

And as I had gently forced her to look at me, her resolve had come crashing down. Those blue eyes full of terror and pain and something else that I later realised was shame. Shame that she had allowed herself to be vulnerable.

But tonight, she is fighting me all the way. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow”

And then she is gone. Turning on her heel and heading for the door, Apollo trotting obediently behind her leaving my hand hovering in mid air.

*Oh Scully*

I wish she would just talk to me. But I know that I am at least partly responsible for the way she acts. Too many times in the last ten years I have waved away her concerns, her fears, and her need for comfort. 

She has no reason to think that tonight would be any different.

 

I sigh and take the untouched drinks to the kitchen, placing them on the countertop. I’ll wash the mugs in the morning. 

And then it suddenly strikes me that I haven’t heard Scully’s car, which is odd because normally when she’s in flight mode, the departure is pretty damn fast.

I cross the kitchen and tentatively open the door. It’s a fine line between concern and intrusion, especially with Scully but I’m not really entirely sure why she hasn’t left yet and I will take a few angry words if that’s what it takes for me to affirm that she’s ok.

At first I don’t see her but as my eyes to adjust to the dark I can just make her out, standing at the edge of the field that borders the property, her arms wrapped around her body in a gesture of protection. She is crying. I can tell just by looking at her and Apollo is sat beside her, raking her leg with his paw – his own brand of canine sympathy. 

There’s a small voice inside of me that tells me to just go back in to the house, to allow her this space. But I ignore it. Whether she wants me or not, this time I refuse to walk away from her. And even though I know she hears my footsteps behind her, she doesn’t turn around. I don’t expect her to. I simply encircle her with my long arms, pulling her back just ever so slightly, so she is leaning her back against my chest. It has never ceased to amaze me just how well we fit together and like pieces of a jigsaw I rest my chin lightly on the crown of her head.

“It’s ok Scully. Ssssshhhhhh ”

We remain there even as it starts to rain again. I can’t say for certain how much time has passed, but Apollo has long since returned to the porch. I heard his claws beating a tiny tattoo on the wooden boards as he paced for a minute before settling down. He has no wish to get soaked. But I don’t really notice the rain. I don’t really notice anything other than the feel of this woman in my arms.

Until Scully suddenly takes a deep, shuddering breath and presses herself deeper against me. In response I tighten my arms around her and without really thinking, I start to gently rock her. 

“It’s ok” I repeat.

And even though I can’t see her, I know she is smiling; an almost imperceptible movement that I feel inside of me. Oh yeah. I know this woman. Better than I know myself I think.

“It’s so beautiful here. I’d forgotten how beautiful it is at night.”

I don’t speak. Lest I break the spell, and I am rewarded when she continues.

“Do you remember when you made me paper flowers?”

Paper flowers. 

The day Scully came home and decided we needed a garden; flowers to break up the long grasses that surround the house. At a time when we were both so desperate to find some colour in the world again. And the next day I had spent the time while she was at work, not on the computer, cataloguing and sorting and searching for answers, but cursing at the kitchen table as I wrestled with wooden sticks, crepe paper and tape. I’m the first to admit that I’m sorely lacking in the artistic department.

But by the time Scully came home, the edge of the field was planted with brightly coloured paper flowers, swaying gently in the chill November breeze. I can’t say they resembled a particular flower. I’d gone for daisies. And from a distance I suppose they looked pretty daisy-like.

And she’d laughed. The first really genuine laugh I’d heard in months.

*Mulder you’re crazy*

I hadn’t disagreed with her; just followed her as she went to investigate further, standing in the long grass, amongst those stupid paper flowers in the frigid November air, a goofy grin on my face because I’d made her happy.

So long ago.

“I remember” I whisper. 

She is still then and I know she is crying again. 

But when I gently turn her around to face me, she doesn’t resist. Instead she brings her small hand up to lay against my cheek.

“I loved you so much that day.”

I feel my throat constrict painfully

“Me too....” I smile softly “Loved you I mean. Not me”

“Mulder!” She slaps my chest lightly but I am rewarded by her snort of laughter.

“Come on G woman. Let’s get you inside.”

And just for a moment as she willingly takes my outstretched hand, I can almost see those brightly coloured flowers in front of me and I’m pretty sure she sees them too.

Continued chapter 3


	3. Chapter three

Allentown Cemetery

Broome County NY

9 days later.

I’m always slightly surprised when I hear people describe funerals as beautiful. I’ve heard it a lot today. But truthfully, I can’t see anything remotely beautiful about putting someone in to the ground. I don’t care how respectfully people have spoken about a lost loved one, how carefully the readings or the music have been chosen. How many memories or personal stories have been shared. 

Death is death.

It is pain and it is heartache and it is final. But it is never beautiful. Beautiful would be having the ability to share even one more precious moment with those who have left us. To be able to at least say goodbye in a meaningful way. Beautiful would be to shake a person’s hand or drop a final kiss on to their cheek. To look in to their eyes, to allow them to see just how much they meant.

But of course, funerals are never for the dead. 

They are only for the living.

Since Skinner came to us that night with the news, Scully and I have been carefully stepping around each other. I know how much John Doggett came to mean to her and if I am truthful, I have always been curious about the relationship they shared when I was unable to be with her. When he was the only one who could give her the support in her role on the X-Files. 

And from what Scully has told me and also what I witnessed on my return, he tried. Even if he didn’t always succeed, he always tried.

A good man. 

An honourable man. 

A man who attempted admirably to hide the fact that he was in love with her. 

She may never have known. I’m not sure. But I knew the first time I ever saw him glance across at her. I know, because I immediately recognised myself. Recognised how it had been for me during the long years when I was too afraid to tell her how I felt. Fear of losing her preventing me from ever just opening my mouth and saying the words.

I never really blamed him - it’s always been hard not to be in love with Scully, especially back then when she was a curious mix of steel cloaked with velvet as she fought the fight for all of us. 

But when I returned, I had no real concept of where I fitted in. So much had been taken from me, so much pain inflicted, that all my constants had been wiped away. 

Except for her that is. 

And I didn’t want anyone or anything jeopardizing that. Clinging on with my fingertips, the memories of what they did to me invading my every waking moment, I truly think I would have given up altogether during those first frightening weeks as I fought to re-establish who I was if I had lost her to someone else.

I know now of course that it would never have happened. 

Because in Scully’s eyes, he was a friend, nothing more. He hadn’t even been permitted to be a substitute. 

But initially at least, I hated him. 

I wanted him nowhere near her. I blocked his access as best I could. I think deep down I was afraid that he would take her away from me.

Ironic really when I consider how many times I have since pushed her away.

But over time, I began to recognise something of John in myself. Our truths may have been different, but our quests for them gave witness to our similarities. And with that knowledge, came a new respect for each other. A respect that slowly, with a few falls along the way, developed in to a deep, abiding trust.

I wish I had looked him up when we had first returned from our self-imposed wilderness. I don’t know why I didn’t.

A fear of opening up old wounds for both of us maybe?

And now it was too late.

People are starting to drift away from the graveside now. It’s a flawless summer’s day again, the dappled sunlight belying the sadness of the occasion. The sun should never shine when we put someone in the ground.

It’s just not right.

I watch as Scully places a single rose beside the freshly dug grave, head bowed, eyes closed as she pays her final respects, says her final goodbyes.

She hasn’t said too much since the night I held her as she cried at the injustice of it all. But every now and again I have watched her expression become distant as perhaps some small memory of him has invaded her thoughts and for once, I have managed to say and do all the right things for her. 

A small atonement for past mistakes.

I even knew to let her have these final few minutes alone. To give her space to say what she needed to. A final affirmation to him that he had meant something in her life. It’s something that she had to do alone.

And so I wait. Gazing over at the immaculate lawns that surround the headstones in this hallowed place of remembrance. 

“Agent Mulder?”

A voice reaches in to my thoughts and I turn to the source. Standing just behind me is a woman. There is something just vaguely familiar about her, although for the life of me, I can’t seem to place her.

Until, 

“Barbara?”

My partner crosses the few yards that separate her from the woman, and briefly, they embrace. And then I put the pieces together.

Barbara Doggett. John’s ex-wife and the mother of his murdered child.

“Agent Scully....Dana. It’s good to see you. It’s been too long.”

Scully nods.

“Yes. Yes it has.”

Barbara is holding a brown file , but Scully grasps her empty hand, giving it a brief squeeze.

“I’m sorry about what happened to John.”

“Me too. He was a good man.” She smiled suddenly, her expression full of gentle sorrow. “But he’s with Luke now. He’s waited a long time.”

“Yes.”

I see Scully start to release the older woman’s hand, and brief surprise flares in her eyes when Barbara tightens her fingers around her wrist.

“John told me about William...”

 

I don’t know why, but hearing this woman, this stranger, say my son’s name, makes my heart painfully skip a beat. I try to kid myself, but the pain will never go away. I told Scully a while ago that I had moved past it. The truth of course being that I will never move past it. I live with the loss every single day of my life. Because there’s nothing else I can do.

But I don’t discuss it with Scully unless she brings the subject up. Even then, I keep my real thoughts and feelings locked away.

She has suffered enough. She still suffers. And she doesn’t need the added burden of my regrets piled on top of her.

And suddenly I don’t want to continue with this conversation. I don’t want to discuss my son with anyone. 

Especially not today.

I glance at Scully, and see the sadness in her face. Two Mothers, united in their loss. I feel like an intruder. So I step slightly to the side, allowing them this private moment. It’s a part of Scully that I can never hope to share. That I will never understand.

And then, Barbara hands the file she has been holding to Scully, murmuring a few words I can’t make out. But the effect on Scully is like electric. Her blue eyes widen, her hand flies to her mouth and she steps backwards, stumbling slightly. Before I can make sense of what is happening, Barbara briefly touches a hand to Scully’s shoulder, locks eyes with me and, with a tiny incline of her head in acknowledgment, she turns and walks away.

Scully doesn’t move. She is just staring at the file held in her hand. She looks like she’s about to pass out and i move quickly to rejoin her.

“Scully? What’s wrong?” My heart is hammering and I can barely breathe.

Not more bad news. Please, I can’t take much more..”

No response.

“Scully?” 

I don’t mean to sound as sharp as I do, but my tone brings her focus back to me. And as she looks at me, tears begin to flood her eyes and spill over to leave crystal streaks that glisten in the bright sunshine. 

And despite the tears, she suddenly looks radiantly beautiful.

But for a few seconds she can’t speak. Her breath is hitching in her chest, catching the words before she can form them. I don’t know what to do. I want to take her in my arms, but I sense that she doesn’t need it. Not right now.

Her arms are crossed now, holding the file beneath pressed tight against her.

And finally, she manages to find her voice.

“It’s William........He’s given him to us Mulder. John has given us our son....”

Her words, her tone, her very being is suddenly suffused with an incredulous joy that is blinding in its intensity.

So why do I suddenly feel so afraid?

Continued in part 4


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alludes to suicide.

As a highly qualified Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I have spent the days since Scully was handed the file ascertaining all and every detail of how it came to be. I have thoroughly questioned Skinner and also John’s ex-wife and fellow conspirator.

I have discovered that Wiliam is somewhere in Wyoming. Unofficially adopted by a distant family member of Monica Reyes.

I have discovered that his adoptive parents are, on a very basic level, aware of why he was given up to them.

 

I have knowledge of how a condition of the ‘adoption’ was that regular updates were supplied to Monica and then later John, to ensure he was both happy and safe. That those same updates would one day be passed to Scully and I.

I would like to question Monica but unfortunately I haven’t been able to locate her. John may have been able to furnish me with the details of her whereabouts but, since dead men don’t speak, I’ve hit a brick wall with that one.

But despite that small detail, I pretty much understand the hows and the whys. I’ve viewed all the evidence with the same clinical detachment I have witnessed in Scully every time she has had cause to don her scrubs before dissecting a corpse and have concluded that, the actions taken by John Doggett with regards to my son, where wholly honourable. And for that I should be grateful.

I have delivered each piece of information to Scully in a dull, monotone voice that I can hardly recognise as being mine.

While all the time I try not to acknowledge the hurt and confusion that exudes from her in waves. 

How I can be so fucking apathetic about the actual contents of that precious file. 

A file that has been in our possession for 5 days, 7 hours and 22 minutes.

And one which I have refused to even hold in my hand, let alone open to view the contents.

I know what it contains of course – it’s no secret now – a full and comprehensive history of William. From age 10 months to present. Photographs, school reports, medical records, even a couple of painted hand and footprints and a poem he wrote to us when he was in 7th grade when he was told about our existence. 

A record of all the most important events in his childhood.

A childhood we missed.

Contained in a buff coloured box file.

And I can’t open it. I just can’t.

Scully doesn’t understand it. I can’t expect her to since I don’t really understand it myself. 

Because I want so much to sit with her and go through the contents of that file. To finally meet my son. A son who I have thought about every single day since Skinner came to tell me that, whatever I thought had been lost already, that nothing would ever compare to the real sacrifice that had ripped out the very heart of the woman I loved more than life itself. 

Because she had given him away.

Had given him away to strangers to ensure his happiness, even at the expense of her own.

I cried bitter tears that night. Not for me, but for everything she had lost. Lost at the expense of a quest that should only have ever been mine, but one that I had dragged her in to. Even when I could have refused her before it was too late. I’d had a hundred opportunities to change things for her.

And for my own selfish reasons, I hadn’t. I had kept her with me. Blind, selfish love had prevented me from ever doing the right thing. By the time I had realised, she was in too deep and the opportunity had gone.

She gave away her son. 

Gave him away because she knew that while ever she was associated with me, that he would never be safe.

When in fact, she could have simply taken him and disappeared. Certainly she had enough access at that point to be erased from society if she had decided to take that course.

But she hadn’t. 

Because as much as she loved William, she loved me too. That to disappear without knowing what had happened to me was simply not an option for her. 

So she stayed. Trying to pick up the shattered remnants of her life, even as she kept believing that I would return.

I will never forgive myself.

I am a guilty man. I deserve the harshest punishment for my crimes.

And God help me, sometimes I wish I had received the punishment that had been metered out to me in that Kangeroo court so many years ago. Because then it would have been over. As hard and as painful and as futile it would have been, she could have had these past fifteen years with her son – or at the very least been a part of his life.

And I would have eventually just become a painful memory.

She hasn’t actually questioned me as to why I am so reluctant to look inside that file and I wonder, if on some level, she already knows the answer. 

That I don’t deserve to view the contents.

That I’m not worthy enough to look in to the face of a child I don’t deserve to call my son.

A child whose Mother I left. Left to make every painful decision regarding his future without one iota of input or support from me.

I’m not his Father.

I never have been.

On some level, I wish she would demand answers from me. As to why I am, even now, leaving her to face this alone.

But she hasn’t and she doesn’t. 

I feel her eyes upon me, when she thinks I’m not aware that she is looking at me. Trying to figure it all out. Trying to figure me out. Just like she always has.

I don’t deserve her concern and I’m aware that I’m pushing her away. I wish I could stop myself, but I can’t. Because as much as I’m trying to protect her, I’m also protecting myself. 

She has found every excuse to come around to the house. Our little house that holds so many secrets of a life once lived.

I know she is desperately worried that I am falling again.

Maybe I am.

Maybe I’m always destined to fall. But this time I don’t want her to fall with me. Not now. Not when she has finally found a semblance of peace.

I feel strangely calm as I turn the small blue and white bottle over and over in my hand, my analytical mind weighing up the potential consequences of my actions. Not on myself of course. But on her.

Dana Katherine Scully.

A woman I never had deserved.

And one who certainly had never deserved me.

It is time to do the right thing. It is time to set her free.

So I slowly flip the lid off the bottle and shake the contents out to join the small pile of pills that jostle each other on the table in front of me. Valium, Ativan and Librium. All recently obtained through unofficial channels – just another crime to add to my many.

And I close my eyes briefly. Seeing her beautiful face in my mind. Just one final time.

I’m so sorry Scully. 

For everything.

Continued in part 5


	5. Chapter 5

I don’t in truth, know how long I sat there. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as I contemplated my life.

Of my many past mistakes. Of the people I had let down. Of the actions I had taken and the impact they had had on those around me. 

I thought about a lot of things.

But mostly I thought of Scully.

And the more I thought about her, our past playing out like a slideshow inside my head, the more I realised, with a clarity that surprised me, that whatever else I could justify, the one thing I never could would be to ditch her again.

I have been on this earth for 52 years. And I have spent a good proportion of those years either running toward or running away from something.

With Scully right there with me.

Not always a physical presence sure.

But with me all the same. Every painful step of the way.

Just like she’s with me now.

And that fact in itself tells me that I’m not ready to fall. Not now and maybe not ever.

I pick up the phone before I can change my mind, unsurprised that she picks up before it has barely rung.

“Mulder? You ok?”

I glance at the clock.

4:01am

And smile ruefully. Knowing suddenly that I am most likely the reason for her apparent insomnia.

“Hey Scully” My voice sounds strange. Probably a result of my self-imposed night time vigil with myself. 

“I.........no....y’know, I’m not ok. I know it’s late but...”

I don’t have to finish. She knows. She always knows.

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

I send up a silent prayer of thanks. To whom, I’m not really sure. 

“Don’t rush. I need you here in one piece.”

“Hey Mulder, I’m immortal remember?”

“Yeah. Yeah you are.”

To me at least you are immortal.

And with that thought, I hang up the phone.

 

X

 

A new dawn is breaking as she pulls the SUV on to the patch of rutted grass that serves as a driveway. The sky is brilliantly streaked with a golden myriad of colour that clings to the trees that surround the property. A fresh day that signifies a rebirth. A chance to atone for past mistakes. 

We don’t always notice.

We should notice.

As children, we have the ability to treat each new day as an adventure. To live in the moment with no thought to either the past or the future. The new day is simply there for the taking. And I think it’s one of life’s great tragedies that, somewhere along the way, we lose that ability.

With age comes understanding. Understanding of so many things. But in order to reach that understanding, so much of our childish innocence must be lost along the way.

It’s taken me so long to realise that.

That with life comes pain. For everyone. Not just me.

And that we always have a choice as to how we allow that pain to shape and govern the people we become. We just don’t always see it.

I left the house after I called her. Needing to feel the cool air against my skin. To affirm to myself that this is life. That despite everything, I am still here. 

And as I sat on the step, listening to the sounds of night turn to day, I knew that this was right.

She steps out of the car, pausing briefly to release Apollo from his doggie seatbelt in the back, not bothering to put his leash on. She knows he won’t wander too far from her. And the property is safe. Nothing can really harm him here. And then she walks the short distance across the grass toward me, squeezing her body in to the vacant space beside me on the porch steps. She smells faintly of perfume. The same perfume she has favoured almost every day since she first walked in to my office all those years ago. I don’t remember what it’s called. But it’s pretty much the essence of her. Her body presses lightly against mine and the feeling of her is so achingly familiar that it causes my breath to catch in my throat.

She doesn’t speak for a few moments. Doesn’t even look at me. But her hand snakes across my lap to capture my own and I feel her fingers lace with mine as her thumb gently traces a pattern on my skin.

“So Mulder....”

Her voice is soft, but the softness belies the determination that radiates off her in diffused morning sunlight. 

Velvet and steel. That’s my Scully.

And I lift my head, almost hungry now to look at her. To affirm that she is really here and I’m rewarded with a ghost of a smile that plays across her face.

“You ready to tell me what’s going on with you hmmm?”

And I nod. I’m ready. Finally, I’m ready.

Continued chapter 6


	6. chapter six

Finally, after so many years, so many denials from the both of us, we talked.

I lost track of how much time passed, but we walked hand in hand as the sun rose high in the sky and talked in a way we hadn’t talked in years. Maybe more than we’d ever talked.

The countryside that surrounds the house is beautiful in its simplicity. Endless fields filled with grasses that made no sound as we made our journey. I chose the house for us because of that remote simplicity. At a time when we both still running, the surrounding landscape meant that we could see. From any direction we could see for mile upon mile.

It seemed at the time to be the safest way to be. To ensure we could always see the danger that we were convinced was always so damn close.

But over the years I have come to appreciate that endless horizon for so many other reasons. When it storms I can sit on the porch and watch the lightening and when the storm passes I’ve watched rainbows paint the sky with light and colour. At night I can literally count the stars. No streetlamps to mar the inky blackness that surrounds that little house like a comforting cloak. The darkness soothes my soul. I’ve seen enough stark brightness to last me a lifetime.

It’s a house that holds no secrets. Exposed as it is on the very edge of nature.

I think that being there saved me in my darkest days.

And Scully.

Always there was Scully. 

Because even when she wasn’t there with me, my past life with her clung to that house and continued to hold me up. 

The memories of her. Those memories saved me.

And I owe her so much.

But slowly, I’m beginning to realise that maybe, just maybe, the weight of responsibility isn’t mine alone.

That she made her own choices. That for all the years I have shouldered a blame that has slowly eaten me alive, I was actually doing this woman a great disservice. Because in doing so, I was only acknowledging my own regrets, my own pain. Never hers. By trying to protect her I have trivialised everything she chose to sacrifice to be with me. Her family, her career, her health, her future. She chose. I didn’t ever force her to choose. It just felt that way to me. But I was wrong. So very wrong.

There have been no angry words. No recriminations. Just an understanding that has taken so many years to finally articulate but which needs to be spoken. 

If we are to survive. If we are to move forwards.

Last night made me realise that I’ve stagnated within myself for far too long. 

And so we talked. Finally we talked. It was surprisingly easy to open doors we had thought were closed forever. 

We stopped walking after a while. And we just sat. Scully in front of me, our arms crossed together against her chest, her head is resting lightly against my shoulder and even though my back is starting to protest, I can’t think of anywhere I would rather be right now. Apollo is sat by her feet, keeping guard against marauding rabbits. And it feels good. It feels kind of like family.

But there is one thing we haven’t yet spoken about.

William

She hasn’t asked me about him or about my reluctance to finally answer the need inside me that has lived every single day for almost fifteen years. I think maybe it’s too painful for her. That she is afraid of what my response will be. Especially today when we have laid each other bare. Truths spoken finally without boundaries, without candour. I wonder if we had been able to have this day five years ago, that everything would be different.

But then again, I know that back then, the hurt was just too big. That the words wouldn’t have been heard by either of us. I think that sometimes, the pain has to be allowed to burn before it can finally be extinguished. But I’m also afraid that some hurt just keeps on burning. That no matter what, it can never fully leave us.

I have no idea what the time is. My watch is back at the house. And after Scully had used her phone to call Skinner’s office to leave a message that we needed to take a day away from work, that we wouldn’t be coming in today, she had placed her phone next to mine on the counter. Skinner would understand. Anyone else who needed us would just have to wait.

And as we sit there, I can almost hear the essence that is Scully. I’m not sure where her heartbeat ends and mine begins. The years have fallen away and finally, everything seems right. How it should be. Except for one final truth that needs to be heard. But no matter how much I try to find a place to start, I’m afraid I won’t be able to make her understand.

But for the both of us, I have to try.

I tighten my arms around her. And inexplicably, she knows, knows before I can even form the words.

“Why are you so afraid Mulder?”

She twists her body slightly, so that, as awkward it is for her, she is able to tilt her head to look at me. Even locked in the confines of my arms as I hang on to her, she is able to look at me. I loosen my grip on her just enough to free her movement. In by doing so, she is able to reach up and place her hand against my neck. I shake my head, unable to meet her eyes.

“Mulder?”

“I......because....” The words catch in my throat but Scully just remains there, not pushing, just waiting, until finally, my voice barely above a whisper “I’m afraid I won’t love him.”

She is silent for a moment. If she is hurt by my admission, she hides it well.

“Why? Why would you ever think that?”

I still can’t bring myself to look at her.

“Three days. I knew him for three days. It was never enough....and then when I was gone...the things they did to me in that prison....”

I am a guilty man. I deserve the harshest punishment for my crimes.

I swallow at the memory. 

Of endless nights on cold concrete floors. Curled up, wracked with pain and regret and guilt. I had refused to think of my son. Refused to allow the precious memory of him to be somehow tainted by that place of fear and terror and hopelessness. To pretend he hadn’t happened at all. It had been the only way to survive. To stop myself losing my mind completely. And in doing so, somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten how it felt to hold him in my arms. To feel his gentle warmth, to breath him in. To love him.

“I wanted so much to love him Scully” I whisper “but I forgot how to...”

I finally look at her

“What if I can’t remember?”

I feel my eyes begin to burn. Hot tears that seem to have no end are threatening to escape their confines and even as I try in vain to blink them back, they are burning their way down my face. Scalding hot tears that mingle with over a decade of shame.

And Scully is crying too. As she scrambles to her knees and reaches out for me. Pulling me towards her with fierce intensity as she finally understands. Her fingers clutch at my hair, twisting it painfully as she forces me to look at her.

“You didn’t ever stop loving him Mulder, can’t you see?.... You just stopped allowing yourself to.”

 

Continued part 7


	7. Chapter 7

So many years ago I sat at this table and made paper flowers to plant for Scully in the field that borders the house. 

To create a colourful moment in time. 

To chase the shadows from her face and the sadness from her eyes.

And for a while, I succeeded I think.

For a while, we were as close to happy as we ever could hope to be back then.

But paper flowers, no matter how beautiful cannot withstand the elements. A few days in the frigid November air, the wind, the rain and the snow slowly destroyed them. Until nothing remained but bare sticks and barren earth.

And even if I had replaced them, as the season of winter and darkness progressed, their longevity would have become ever shorter before they fell to the ground or were taken by the winds.

And I now know that, symbolically at least, those paper flowers became us.

That no matter how much we wanted us to survive, to remain colourful and vibrant and whole, that the dark seasons would always claim us. Rip us down. Lay us bare.

And after a while, the paper flowers stopped making any sense. 

Nothing made sense.

When we became so emotionally detached that we hurt each other without even knowing. Not just with words, but with actions – or rather a lack of them.

We became strangers to each other.

I no longer recognised the woman who had been my constant for almost twenty years. So much had been taken from her that she was just empty. 

And even though we went through the motions of our daily lives our eyes were closed and we no longer saw each other.

Living together, sleeping together. But no longer a partnership.

Two separate souls who just forgot how to be with each other.

Like autumn leaves we couldn’t hold on. The downward spiral became inevitable.

And when she had gone, I tried to tell myself that it was ok. That it was for the best. For both of us.

But being apart could never be best for either of us. I know now that she suffered as much as I did during those long months where we had no contact. But we were both so wrapped up in our own misery that we just didn’t know how to reach out. To finally admit that if one was around, the other would always survive somehow.

It has taken years to return to this point. 

And with it, a final acceptance.

A certainty that no matter what, we can never go back. We can never hope to recapture what we once had.

But we can make something different.

I’ve spent years yearning for something that could never be again. Not realising that by mourning what I perceived I had lost, I was unable to see what could be.

When John Doggett made it his business to catalogue William’s life for us, he couldn’t possibly have known how that action would impact us.

Because contained amongst those photographs of my son was something equally as precious that I thought I had lost so many years ago.

Faith. 

A faith in myself. A faith that even though I had got it wrong so many times, that even now, there was still time to get it right.

 

When I finally opened that file, looked in to eyes of the fifteen year old boy that smiled at me from another place, I felt something awaken in me that I had suppressed for so long.

Pride. 

Love.

Hope.

As a baby he was all Scully. Or maybe that’s how I remember him. 

But he is also me. And I am him.

My precious son.

Born of a love for his Mother that I realise is eternal. That no matter how much the light may dim for us, that it will never be truly extinguished.

And that maybe one day we will be lucky enough to share that love with our Son.

But if we can’t.....well that’s ok too.

Because the yearning within us both has been answered. For Scully and I the years of uncertainty have finally ended.

Because, regardless of where he is, of who he is, he is happy and he is safe.

And that’s enough.

It has to be.

I smile at the thought.

I’m still smiling when I hear Scully’s footsteps behind me and she pauses to drop a hand on my head. 

She stayed over last night. It wasn’t planned. She’d brought Apollo over who, was fast beginning to see my little house as his second home. I’d even been and bought him a bed which he largely ignored. He much preferred to be with us on the sofa, and if I’m honest I think I preferred it too.

And in the silence of the warm summer’s evening we had talked about our son. Perhaps for the first time, we had talked without sorrow.

It was a good feeling.

And Scully had stayed.

That was a good feeling too.

We have a long way to go. The wounds we inflicted upon each other will take a long time to heal. But they will heal.

I’m surer of that than I have ever been about anything.

I see it in her face; I feel it in her touch. That we are healing. Slowly we are healing.

“Hey” Her voice is soft, still a little thick with sleep. “You should have woke me”

I don’t answer. Instead I rise slowly to my feet and turn to face her. The sunlight illuminates her face and she looks happy. She looks so damn happy I could cry.

And I capture her small hand in mine and lead her towards the door. 

“Mulder?” but there is laughter in her questioning tone.

Maybe she senses that I have surprise for her. I’ve never been good at surprising her. But this morning, while she slept, I stole her car and made the short journey in to town. 

I returned with a single rosebush which I planted on the edge of the field where we would see it from the porch.

Something real and tangible we can hold in our hands; watch as it weathers the storms that will inevitably come along, becoming stronger with each passing year.

Because the time for paper flowers is gone.

End


End file.
